The Few The Proud The They
This is the part of the show where Sarah comes out and yells at people and their clichés. "For heaven’s sake," she says, "take the road less traveled and quit boring us all to death." She wants to start with a newie but a goodie. In fact it may, or may not, have even reached the level of cliché at this point, but it is close enough to make Sarah say, "grrr. How about a new question please?" And so, without further delay is Sarah and her They.
Hi folks, I know how much you’ve all been anticipating my answer to this question, right? In fact I’m shocked, no aghast, no shocked that not one of you has written to Miss Eliza and demanded a response. But since nobody did, I’m going to address the topic in my NEW column Cliché Busters. Y’all know what I’m talking about right? The age old question, "So who is this They that everyone keeps talking about?"
And my answer is, stop asking. It’s getting old. Try something new this week, like, "Who is this You that I keep referring to?" It’s vastly more philosophical, baffling, and fun. But I digress.
For those of you who don’t know, they is a PRONOUN that can be used to talk about many things. Whatever this thing is that your THEY is replacing, that’s the ANTECEDANT. This cryptic "They" that everyone talks about all the time doesn’t really have an antecedent and should be capitalized because it’s just so darn special. It also talks a lot, as in, "They say that there’s a war on." Yes, They do say that, and after They say that, then they start saying that to be just like They but they aren’t, and you know it, and they know it because if you ask them who They is, their answer isn’t going to involve the words, me, myself, or I.
SIDE NOTE: that was way fun to write by the way. I just wanted you to know that.
Apparently They are the originators of all of these ideas like the one that goes, "there’s a war on." Which means that They are the creators of the nation’s talking points. Not so strange now that you know, huh? Getting the answer is as satisfying as drinking flat Coke.
But They are not the leaders in some vast conspiracy involving crop circles, oil reserves, and JFK. I’m not saying that there aren’t any cast conspiracies involving crop circles, oil reserves, and JFK, I’m just saying that these conspiracies are invented by actual antecedents and not your generic Them. Got that?
The ones that make me want to groan condescendingly are people that ask "Who is They?" like it’s new, first of all, and secondly, like the answer is so scintillating that it’s worth conversing about. I’m sorry to report to you people that the topic is stale. It’s lost all it’s verve. It’s laying there on life support, when we’re all perfectly aware that it had a living will. Make your peace, and let it go.
That’s all I have to say about that, and so I leave you with a plea. Leave your clichés in high school. Life is so much better than a trite little saying. I know, because I am a trite little saying, and I look upon life with envy and resentment at being relegated to hacks.
Dan Brown Is A Liar?
So the Da Vinci Code is in the news again, this time because the Catholic Church fears that this book gives them a bad name. "It’s full of lies," they say. And this is easily rebutted by any thinking person anywhere by saying, "It’s friggin fiction! What were you expecting, George and a cherry tree?"
Me personally, I didn’t care for the book. How does it irk me? Let me count the ways. No, that would take to long and make me sound like an elitist bitch. (me? Ha!) So let me summerize. I have no problem with the thesis of the book, if Dan Brown wants to get people thinking about something they’ve just taken for granted since their parents were conceived, that’s fine with me. I have a problem with bad writing. And The Da Vinci Code was bad writing. I suffered from an appalling lack of curiosity over what was going to come next, and his little "cliffhangers" at the end of every chapter were overused, over dramatic, and overkill. (As was my use of the word, for which I apologize.) The only thing that kept me reading was habit.
Originally, I decided that this would be a perfectly wonderful book if the man hadn’t tried to stick it in an ooo-lets-get-everyone-ever-to-read-this-thing hole. Translation: I would have preferred non-fiction.
Thing is, fiction is going to reach a larger audience than a thesis paper. If you take what you want to say, dumb it down into a cheesy suspense novel and add the Mona Lisa (to make them feel smart) you’re going to reach roughly an extra billion people. Your message has got do much further than it ever could have otherwise.
Where was I? Oh, that’s right, I was talking about people using the fiction label as a defense of the book. Not too happy, about that. It’s a cop out. Saying The Da Vinci Code has no responsibility to the truth because it’s a work of fiction is cheating.
That’s not to say that I think Dan Brown is telling the truth. That is to say that I think Dan Brown thinks that his theory is true (or at least that it has some validity) and when people say "it’s fiction" meaning, "it’s just fiction" that undermines the potency of what he wants to say. (Yet another problem that could have been solved if the man had done the simple thing and non-fictized the book.)
Unless of course, he doesn’t believe a word he’s written and it really is just fiction to him, in which case he’s much worse than just a bad writer, he’s a cult leader and should be removed from the face of the Earth ASAP. (But then again, he should be removed from the face of the Earth ASAP anyway, just for being a hack.)
OK, I’m getting off the high horse now. Tune in tomorrow for something completely different.
And please, please, please, if you didn't like The Da Vinci Code, show your face (or voice, or fingerprint or SSN). We can start a support group. I think I might need it.
Dear Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza,
My next door neighbor appeared in last month’s issue of Good Gardens to Gape At. It was twenty pages of her lovely garden and those adorable gates and trellises and flowers and shutters in her windows. The pictures were lovely and liable to make a good many home gardeners envious. They might even ask, "I wonder what her secret is." Sadly, I am privy to the answer. This garden is a fraud. All those lovely flowers and vines and vegetables are fake. She doesn’t even HAVE shutters on her windows. Should I make a big deal out of this?
--The Real Deal
Dear Real,
This is not, as you seem to want to make it, a moral issue. It’s not about whether it’s "right" or "wrong" to let an entire country be deceived by the equivalent of hundreds of thousands of words This is a matter of pity.
If you are a pity person, you will feel sorry for the way your neighbor has to pretend to herself and to the whole world that she knows her gardening. Think of the psychological hell she must be putting herself though each spring as she plants her plastic seeds and watches them grow.
Ok, it’s a nice image, but doesn’t really work well. This is mostly why I’m not a poet. The rest of the reason being that I don’t want to be a poet. So there.
Your neighbor is simply damaged. This is not a sin. This is not even bad. I know damaged. I’m very good at damaged. I take pride in damaged. Damaged is what makes me the puppet I am today.
So head on over to your neighbor’s house and bring a basket of goodies. Not the green kind though, because that’s just showing off. Buy her some cookies or a pie or a frozen cake at the grocery store. What your friend needs is confidence. Confidence is also known as something you can see yourself as better than. In this case, she will conquer her self esteem issues by devouring cheesy signs of other people's laziness.
NO seriously, this works. How do I know? Did you know I’m a doctor? That’s because I’m not. Mostly because I haven’t got the training, but the rest of the reason being that I don’t want to be a doctor. So there.
--Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza,
Make up a list of words that sound bad but aren't, like flaccid and moist.
--Tousled in New York
p.s.
http://www.tyborg.com/blog/C549754167/E2078497269/Media/batgun.jpgDear Tousled,
Who do I look like? FREUD? This may be hard to SWALLOW (and easy to SPIT out), but we are actually two different entities. I do not have ORAL cancer. I do not even think about SEX in any of its latent forms. Yes, it is a common misconception, often COUPLED with the idea that I seek only GRATIFICATION of my own fantasies. This may be HARD for you to comprehend, but my nature is not a PHALLIC one. My PLEASURES lie in far simpler times of beach BALLS and SUCKERS. Yes, I am a MEMBER of the Peter Pan club. My HEAD aches and THROBS with such adult ideas as you are asking me to contemplate. Why must you ask me to PLAY WITH this question? I should be out FONDLING such lofty ideas as Relativity and the evolutionary advantages HORNY toads. Oh, dear, what is a poor girl to do?
--Miss Eliza
p.s. of course this is just one way to interpret your request. One could also run through the dictionary and pick out words that would be DIRTY if you were coming up with definitions. Examples being "kazoo" and "pheasant." (I mean, can you seriously tell me that doesn't sound libidenous?)
Dearest readers,
And by dearest I mean those of you how follow one word to the next and stick them together in meaningful ways.
Would you like to become active in the Dear Miss Eliza process? Are you bored by all the questions that other people ask? Think you could do better? Think you could do worse? Then prove it. We’re always looking for curious people around here. Just ask a question. You can post it here, or e-mail it to me at
selizawalden@yahoo.com and I’ll answer it poste haste. Thank you for reading!
--Miss Eliza
A Circus, But Without The Elephants
So there are these two news stories that have been floating around in the last pages of the newspapers lately. With all this fuss about Kyrzystan I doubt you’ve even had a chance to notice them. These are stories that I’ve been loathe to bring up, for obvious reasons, but since I’ve finally discovered the angle that no one else has, I thought it only fair to share.
See, it all sort of starts a few decades ago with the formation of The Jackson Five. A lot of things happened between then and now which I won’t get into because I’m not that evil. Cut to today. Michael Jackson is in court dealing with child molestation charges and the people want to know all about it.
But here’s the kicker.
Michael Jackson is a joke.
This is the most important statement ever uttered by a thinking creature ever in the history of ever. It bears repeating. For emphasis, try a British accent.
Michael Jackson is a joke.
Now, we all know about how elite today’s media is, and we all know it because they said so on television and on the radio and in books and on the internet and in the movies and in newspapers and... where else do we find media? Anyway, there too. So because the media told me that the media is full of snobs, I’m using that as a base for future arguments. Ready?
Is a media full of elite snobs going to want to cover a joke? Are they going to want to give the attention to this story that the plebeian masses demand of them? Hell no. They need a diversion. Something also involving courts. Something with an air of legitimacy and moral values that we can all latch on to. Something That will push Mr. Jackson onto pages A 2-3.
And such is the story behind the media circus around Terri Schivo. Haven’t we all asked ourselves, "What’s the big deal about this one woman? It’s actually so that serious reporters don’t have to take part in the media circus around Michael Jackson.
Because, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed this or not, but nothing is allowed to be funny when a woman is starving to death because all the king’s congress and all the king’s presidents couldn’t get the feeding tube inside her again.
What I mean is, Terri Schivo is not a joke. It's just tasteless and rude, and it means that you don't have a heart. Or taste. Or tact. Which I don't, so I don't see what the problem is.
But
Michael Jackson is a joke.
Wait, did I say that already? My bad.
So, since
Michael Jackson is a joke and Terri Schivo isn't (unless you're me and you've seen her everywhere you look for a week and a half, and you're wondering if maybe other things are happening out there in the world) then it's all right for her to take super valuable front page space every day, even if the only new thing to be reported is that she's getting weaker.Because seriously, we really couldn't have come to that conclusion on our own simply based on the fact that her feeding tube was removed eleven days ago. We just don't have that kind of brain power. It's what seperates us from the dolphins, what we have to be told my the media that's so much smarter than we are.
Have I thouroughly confused matters yet? I guess it all boils down to two things.
1. No news story deserves headlines for more than one day. Even if itvolves a woman who is being forced to starve to death because she told her husband that's what she would have wanted.
2
. Michael Jackson is a joke.
Your "Shopping" List
You know how every time you’re driving "home"…
and by "home" I mean the house where your parents are living.
…you come up with this list of things you plan on "stealing"?
And by "stealing" I mean taking things that your parents would be perfectly happy to give you if you bothered to ask which you just never do
But then you get there, and one thing leads to another and actual things…
Like religion and politics and politics of religion and religion of politics
…take up all that brain space on which you were saving your "shopping" list. And since the file got deleted you leave with loads of goodies...
Not quite care package goodies, but they have their own uses. Like those little green pieces of paper they stick on your pockets make excellent currency.
... that your parents so thoughtfully donated to the Keep You Alive For A While charity, that is so wrongfully left out of tax exempt status.
So in the end you’ve got great things like cans of soup and Easter candy and salad tongs and vitamins…
What’s with the vitamins anyway? But that’s for a new day.
…but you’ve also left all those nice little toiletries un-pilfered. Just like you reminded yourself on the way over that you weren't going to.
You know what I’m talking about, right? Q-tips. I really don’t think your mom and dad would have a problem sharing with you...
After all they come in quantities resembling the population of China
...but it’s March now, and you’ve been reminding yourself to nab some since January. And you haven’t yet.
Worse though than the forgoten and unwritten shopping list, are those things you should remember in flashing neon signs, but somehow they only cross your mind like a bird flying across the road in front of you.
"Oh, I should remember my tax forms when I leave tomorrow."
"I know I’m going to forget my backpack. Remind myself to remember my backpack." Yeah, like that one works.
So when you’re packing to leave, in the end, somehow, you remember to pack the Hunter S. Thompson edition of Rolling Stone, but completely forget the jacket that has your apartment keys in it.
For those of you who are very confused about why you put your apartment keys on a separate chain from your car keys and never told yourselves, it was so that you could warm your car up and lock your apartment door simultaneously.
So in the end, no matter what happens, you still hit yourself over the head with a paring knife because you forgot the q-tips and you can't get into your apartment or do your taxes or your homework.
In which case it's a comfort to know that you've got those vitamins.
Hmmm. Somewhere inside me, a voice is screaming to be heard that is saying, "Sarah, since you already know you’re a freak, you may be confused as to how many experiences you share with your readers. Who knows, they might actually be resposible. And mature. And good human beings who don't kill plants. Maybe you just happen to be really bad at invisible lists and mental post-its."
To which I reply, "Ha! This phenomenon is as universal as the snipping of the umbilical chord." The thing is, to prove it, I'm going to need some help. You must put this little voice in my head to bed with your stories. What is it you're always forgetting to remember even though you todl yourself to remind yourself not to?
On your mark:
Get set:
Go:
The Art of Self Depreciation
Why is this an art form? A put down must be handles with style and grace. Use it too much and people will start to move away from you at a rate that will have you wondering about your smell. One might call it too much of a good thing if one was to look at it as a good thing, and we all know how people react to too much of a good thing. See: the macarana.
"But," you ask, "Why do I need to put myself down at all? It’s counterintuitive and unhealthy and no one is going to want to hire me." This is just not true. (except for the hiring thing. Don’t try this at an interview.) Done with humor, an insult to yourself simply means you follow the first rule of life in any form: DO NOT TAKE YOURSELF TOO SERIOUSLY. (BTW, this is a most excellent rule and to be followed in dead earnestness. Bad things happen when you move away from this. For further evidence, see: Julia Roberts. Remember Hook?)
As for practicing the art of self depreciation, you should follow a few simple rules.
USE SPARINLY. This cannot be emphasized enough. All you need is a dash. Like a cooking dash, as in "a dash of rosemary." If you have no sense of the size of a cooking dash, find a recipe and follow the directions. It’ll all make sense.
YOUR NEGATIVITY SHOULD NOT BE THE CENTERPIECE OF A CONVERSATION. It is a sidebar. Lets use an example. Say you’re driving down the highway and you pass under a bridge that has a sign with the name of the road on it. How long is that road sign in your consciousness? Not very.
NOTE: If conversing partner kidnaps your comment and feels the need to play Freud, offer her cheesecake. (actual or metaphorical) This will send you off on a new and more enjoyable subject.
NOTE: said cheesecake (actual or metaphorical) must be handled itself with skill so that your conversing partner doesn’t quite notice that you’re changing the subject.
USE FUNNY. Funny draws the attention away from your actual comment and towards the joke part. This way you can release the pressure (in dashes, of course) of your pathetically low self esteem and disguise it as funny. And if done correctly, no one will ever notice, and you will not be forced to talk about yourself.
I should know. I’ve had to talk about myself before. Completely gruesome.
NOTE: This is my dash of self depreciation. Did you notice? Of course you did, because I wrote it in neon on a billboard and put very big boobies next to it. So if your next question is, "and what’s so gruesome about your life?" I will reply with, "People who become interested in the workings of my brain explode. You don’t want that. Have some cheesecake. I made it myself. It has a dash of rosemary in it."
Three rules. That’s easy enough isn’t it? Of course, some of you need somewhere else to use your sardonic comments on your own psyche. And let me just remind you how many people are out there, begging to be put down. Current favorites: Michael Jackson, Barry Bonds, the entire Bush administration… you can do it. And people want to hear it. And if it’s not about you, you can just make your entire recipe consist of rosemary.
Dear Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza,
I really like this girl I’ve seen around, but I don’t know how to go about asking her out or introducing myself. I'm too shy/scared. How can I gain confidence and shed my horrible fear of rejection?
--Gunmetal blah blah blahDear Gunmetal,
As it turns out, I happen to be an authority on romantic relationships. ME and them, we’re like this: [] So you’re in good hands. The answer to all of your doubts and insecurities lies in the first comfort that a mother ever gave her kid. That’s right, the bo-bo blanket.
It has scientifically proven magical properties that instill perfect confidence and trust into its squeezer. I have done studies myself. Wrapped in my security blanket, I passed safely through Bluebeard’s castle and single-handedly fended off the Balrog’s first cousin. Granted, these pale in comparison to the formidable foe that is female Homo sapien, nothing short of myth will prepare you better.
"But," you ask, "where can I find such treasure as you speak?" Tis true that the quest for the bo-bo blanket is perilous and fraught with relatives. You will have to journey to the cardboard box in our attic, cryptically marked "baby Gunmetal blah blah blah." But do not be deceived. Only a fully grown man can truly understand and accept the need for his bo-bo blanket. He is not a toddler who can open that box and pull out this soft collection of fuzz balls and memory.
But the bo-bo blanket isn’t for everyone. I admit that. Your next best bet is going to be a kickass cologne and alternate personality schooling. It’s a conscept that I’ve been thinking of expanding, and finally I got some funding left over from Viewers Like You (yes, I’m talking about the PBS Viewers Like You. Don’t ask. It’s a touchy subject) and classes start in October. Wish me luck!
And good luck to you too, Gunmetal.
--Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza,
Is the glass half empty or half full?
--Thirsty in AustraliaDear Thirsty,
Due to the Heinsburg uncertainty principle, it has been proven that you can know either a glass’s fullness, or it’s emptiness, but not both at the same time. A lot of this is due to the dual nature of the glass itself. It is generally conceded that we’re talking about a martini glass that has been sealed shut and flipped upside down. Why? Because they came up with the answer to an average glass that was right side up and needed a challenge.
Sadly, theory is terribly complicated and most people like to deal in the concrete. So look at it this way. If you have eaten a pizza, it is half gone. This "gone" means empty. Therefore the pizza is half-empty. Further evidence can be found in the stomach. If you are capable of eating a whole pizza, then if you have consumed half the pizza, your tummy is half full. Which means the empty half is sitting right there on the table staring at you. So again, the pizza on the table is the half-empty half.
This is a very good way to introduce us to the drink. Lets say someone (who happens to have a much smaller stomach than the pizza person) has drunk half his drink. His tummy is then half full, leaving the drink half-empty.
And also, obviously, sealed shut and upside down in a martini glass.
There you go, an age old philosophical question can finally be laid in a cozy little trundle bed and sung to sleep. We should all be so lucky.
--Miss Eliza
Dear Readers,
Do you have a question for Miss Eliza? Don't be afraid to share it with the whole class. YOu can post it in the comments section, or e-mail it to me at
selizawalden@yahoo.comHave a nice day!
The Cupidity of Clouds
Is it me, or do clouds remind you a lot a lot of cupid?
Not really in the romantic matchmaking sense, but let’s face it. Cupid is a brat who likes to stir things up and see what happens.
-Hmmm, a stockbroker and a hippy? Now that’s entertainment. This is going to be good. We’re talking golden arrow award for "Most Volatile Relationship" here. I’d better write a speech.
-Hey, that biker chick has been sitting at the bar alone all night. I should hook her up with the janitor. Mom would freak!
Get it? It’s a game. And why shouldn’t it be? If I could make people fall head over heels I’d want to see how far I could take it, try new combinations all the time. Fiddle with ye mere mortals. The practical joke is one of our highest art forms.
This is why the celestial manager saw fit not to give me any power. I would totally abuse it. And have a wicked good time doing it.
Clouds are like that too. They've got a high level of cupidity, the rambuntious little devils. They understand they hold a certain sway over our daily workings, and they like to play with that. And again I can’t really blame them?
An outdoor wedding, huh? It’s so romantic huh? Do you have any idea what I can throw at you? Hail will do nicely, I think. But no sun. That’s so too easy. Come on, be a little creative, please.
Dude, check this out. See that guy down there, shoveling his car out of that snow pile left over from last night? Check this out. I’ve got another three feet for him starting now. Watch what he does, ready?
Oh so you think that just because it’s nice and sunny out, you can take a long canoe ride into the middle of the lake? You think you’re better than me, don’t you? Try again, buster.
And the oldest entertainment in human history? You know, laying on your back and watching the clouds and using them as Rorschach’s tests? Clouds won’t even stay in one shape. They keep switching on you?
See that one? Doesn’t that look like a clown?
What? Where?
That bulge up front, that’s it’s nose, see? And it’s got the bald head and huge eyes… no wait, now it’s a buffalo.
Nope. Sorry, all I’m seeing is a mermaid smoking a cigar.
You’ve got issues.See? It’s all about playing with us and between us and on top of us, just to get a reaction. And boy, don’t we! Need proof?
1. I’ve done this blog since November. What is my most common topic? The weather.
2. When people talk about the weather, what’s the ratio of good comments to negative comments? I’m thinking 20% good 80% bad.
3. Any life worth living is outside a significant portion of the day (one would hope) and to be outside is to be in the weather and to be in the weather is to be affected by the weather, and to be affected by the weather is to opine about the weather, and to opine about the weather is to react to the weather, and the clouds have won.
But on the other hand, isn’t it worth it anyway?
How To Write An Essay
If blogging as taught me anything it’s this. IF YOUR LIFE ISN’T INTERESTING ENOUGH, MAKE SOMETHING UP. So here does.
Essay Topic:
Many childhood experiences have lifelong impressions on people. In the Space provided, write an essay in which you describe a childhood experience and the effect it had on your life.
And my mind goes blank. Has my life really got so little to do with my past? Who knows, but I have thirty minutes to write an essay, or no one is ever going to let me teach anyone anything ever again. So I take choice B. I invent the story. They’re really only interested in the style and form etc. not what it is I’m saying, so who cares if it’s not true? It’s still an essay. So I begin.
My romantic life has followed a familiar pattern since I discovered boys . It started when I was in Kindergarten and by now I know it well. It begins with a deep infatuation followed by my declaration of love and ends with his scorn. How is a girl supposed to react? I learned early and I learned well.
When I was five, the cutest boy in class was named Ted. He sat in the desk next to mine and never, ever talked to me. But I was in love, and not one to notice such trivial matters. I decided to tell him how I felt, and Valentines Day was coming up. Perfect.
Class preparations had been in the works for some weeks. We decorated the room, and we spent two whole craft periods making Valentines Day mailboxes out of construction paper and cereal boxes. Mrs. Richards sent home a note telling parents to please remember to send baked goods to school with us on February 14, for the class party. And of course, there were valentines to make.
Of course, my Valentine for Ted was the center of my attention. It took up a whole sheet of paper, compared to the quarter sheet that all my other class mates got. It was red with pink hearts everywhere and even little white doilies for that extra special touch. The message was important, and I chose my words carefully from my extensive five year old vocabulary. "To Ted: I love you. Ples be my Valinten?" I dropped some candy hearts in the envelope because the deepest sign of affection ever found between two people is the sharing of candy hearts. It’s a proven fact. Finally, I slipped my card into his mailbox and waited.
On February 14, my mom made cupcakes, one for each student, and she even put their names on them in pink frosting. I was so proud.
After lunch, we got to open our Valentines. I was so excited. Where was Ted’s what had he written? Did he like me? Would he give me candy? I tore through all my cards looking for those two words, "From: Ted." They weren’t there. He had forgotten to give me a Valentine.
Jerk.
Obviously, I was upset. But as we are judged by our reactions to tense situations, I carefully plotted my answer to this dastardly affront. I turned to him.
"Hi," I said. I looked at his desk. He had not opened my card yet. He didn’t even care that it was four times bigger than any of the other cards.
Jerk.
"Hi," he replied.
"Are you going to eat that?" I pointed to the cupcake that said, "Ted" on it.
"Yeah."
"Well, you don’t want to do that. My dog licked it before I got on the bus this morning. I couldn’t stop him. It was only yours that he wanted, I don’t know why." I picked it up off the desk. "Anyway, I’d better get rid of it for you. I’ll flush it down the toilet." And I walked out of the room without even asking permission. Mrs. Richards didn’t notice.
I had intended to flush it down the toilet. But this was a cupcake. My mother had gone through a lot of trouble to make it, and it was really good. So I did the only sensible thing. I ate it, and went back inside. Boys, yuck.
This pattern has followed me around all my adult life. But I like to think that I’ve learned my lessons. First of all, boys are just boys, so don’t go trying to make them superboys. Second, It’s better just not to tell him if you aren’t sure how he feels. Third, they’re going to think you’re psychotic anyway, so evil plots of revenge cannot lower their opinion of you and they will leave you feeling satisfied and broken hearted instead of broken hearted. It’s worth it.
Is it a good essay? Well, I wrote it, didn’t I? So that’s not saying much. But it was good times anyway, and I always get such a kick out of making things up when I’m not supposed to… sort of.
Dear Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza,
Will you have sex with me?
--Alone In Anchorage
Dear Alone,
No.
Here’s why.
First of all, you don’t want to have sex with me. I promise. I’m just not that kind of girl. And by not that kind of girl, I’m not talking about the usual type of not that kind of girl. I’m talking about the perfectly non-cliché version of not that kind of girl. I’m not that kind of girl that you meet in a bar and buy a drink for. That’s the kind of girl that I’m not that I’m talking about. Get it?
I’m the kind of girl that walks up to you and starts making strange unfollowable conversation (drunk or sober, it’s just as retarded) about hippopotamus education and fleeting moments of pretty cake. Basically the random stuff that I go on and on about here. It’s really, really unsexy, and very scary for the male species.
I’ve got this psychological problem in dealing with the world. It’s based on this wacky theory that conversation should stimulate the mind. And unstimulating conversation is a sign of an unstimulating kind of mind from which I will walk away before you ever get a chance to show me your moves.
Another reason you don’t want to have sex with me is that I smell like cocoa butter. The male population finds this aroma repulsive. I can only assume that all your collective mothers forced cancer inducing amounts of sunscreen down your throats when you were wee small things. This was in the early days of sunscreen, when doctors believed that ingesting sunscreen would protect your liver from harmful UV rays. (Note to future writers, the words UV rays must always be preceded by the word harmful. Otherwise you are uttering a massively derogatory statement aimed at polar bears.) And to this day the smell summons up relapses of Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome.
The final reason you don’t really want to have sex with me? My vocabulary is dangerous and intimidating. Have I mentioned how easily I can drop the word impotent into a conversation? What makes you think I would be any kinder to you? On the contrary, the better I know you, the more free I feel to bash your psyche against a very large, very sturdy rock.
Oh dear, Alone, you’ve made me go and talk about myself. What’s with that?
--Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza,
Is there such a thing as a stupid question?
--Poser in Paradise
Dear Poser,
yes.
But don’t let that stop you from asking them. Because it is impossible to tell whether a question is stupid or not, before you get it out where anyone can analyze it. And it’s not that we don’t know whether your question is stupid before you ask it. It’s that your question has not decided yet whether to be stupid or not. The moment of decision is while it is passing your vocal chords. At this point it can be documented and calibrated and measured. If this is confusing to you, research Schrodinger’s cat.
Now you must not be self conscious about asking stupid questions. They are my favorite kind. If you don’t know who to ask your stupid questions to, ask me. They are my bread and butter. Or, to make this analogy more fitting to my situation, they are my fresh vegetables and frozen fruit drink concentrate.
You see, you don’t need to be afraid of how your question is received. If those around you fall silent and stare and you for a few seconds while they try to stick their brains back into some version of order, that only means that you’ll have a story to tell your grandchildren about. In fact, I’ll share one of my own. It doesn’t involve a question, but the key word isn’t question, it’s stupid. And I really know how to say something stupid. Let me annecdote.
Once upon a time, I was visiting my roommate’s family in a foreign land called Connecticut. We were at her uncle’s house watching a movie. Her uncle (an antique dealer) had a movie progector and rooms and rooms stocked with movie reels. On this particular night, we were watching… what’s that Burt Reynolds movie where he plays the stunt double? Anyway, we’d come to the end of the second reel and they younger natives were growing restless. It was time to get to the real movie theater for the last showing of Dawn of the Dead (the remake) and they were wondering whether to leave or to stay and watch the end of this Burt Reynolds movie. I, in my infinite wisdom and wit, offered the statement that maybe, in the third reel of Burt Reynolds, everyone’s heads would explode. Nobody got the joke and I was treated with caution by all for the rest of the evening.
Jokes are very similar to questions. They either go down like chocolate or tea tree oil. And there are such things as stupid jokes, too.
The moral of the story is: ask stupid questions anyway. And if people look at you like you’ve got two heads, you may be in the wrong galaxy.
--Miss Eliza
Top Ten Reasons To Visit My Blog Regularly
NOTE: Before we get started, I just want you to know, that I count DOWN my top ten reasons, not UP them. You know how Rolling Stone Magazine does their Top !00 this or that and they always start with the very biggest best most wonderful thing and take it all backwards from there? Save the suspense, people! Lucky for me I always read periodicals from back to front.
NEXT NOTE: I was going to call this top ten reasons to vitit my blog, but you'd only be able to read it if you were alreaady here, so that just doesn't do much does it?
10. To see if your question has been published in my Dear Miss Eliza column. OR: because you have a question you’d like to ask Miss Eliza. (on a related note, tune in next time to hear my top ten reasons for writing to Miss Eliza)
9. The name. Come on, The Mouse In My Hair? It just goes without saying.
8. Because anything can happen. I mean the probability that something isn’t going to come up is exactly the same as the probability that it IS going to come up. Which means that anything can happen good. Or anything can happen bad. Or both. There’s always the possibility that the photon is going through both slits at the same time. It’s not just a particle, it’s a wave!
7. To prove to your friends that you’re an intellectual snob. Just look at how witty you appear sitting there chuckling at all my dry humor.
6. To prove to your friends that you’re a jackass too. I mean seriously, this stuff may not be crude, but it is the mental level of a Disney cartoon.
NOTE: Both of these reasons are helped prodigiously when your friends visit regularly as well.
5. It is your moral duty. Sure it didn’t make the Ten Commandments… or even the Bible, but only by one vote.
4. My people counter has a cripplingly low self image. He feels like no one acknowledges him and they’re trying to put him out of a job. And all that dead space between visitors gives him WAY too much time to think. And we all know about the correlation between thinking too much and suicide. Right?
I’m sorry. I don’t usually resort to guilt trips. I don't like them. They are evil. So don’t look at it like a guilt trip. Look at it like words strung together in an amusing way. Feel entertained.
3. Think of how good you look in comparison. This can be done in several ways. The simplest is to say, "man that chick is MESSED up. My life actually makes sense next to that!" Or you can look at your brain in the mirror, then look at my blog, then look at your brain in the mirror, then look at my blog etc. Finally, breathe easy.
And remember, one’s sense of one’s own self worth compared to others drains remarkably quickly, so come back OFTEN to fill up on warm fuzzy feelings about yourself.
2. The rabbi just stopped by. I’m now officially kosher.
1. There is an age old magic spell that I’ve invoked in relation to my blog. (This is not the first time, I used this spell on my yearbook too.) he who visits regularly will be blessed with superior wealth and happiness and joy, and health if he or she should so desire.
So come back. Have a good time. Tell your friends. Make me popular!
A Girl Walks Into A Bar
A girl walks into a bar and asks, "excuse me, where’s the bathroom?" nobody says anything. So she keeps going. "The water closet? The little girls’ room?"
The guy behind the counter speaks up. "We ain’t got a little girls’ room. They ain’t allowed in here. Have to be twenty one to buy a drink. See the sign?" He points.
She laughs at his confusion. "Oh, no. It’s just a metaphor. I don’t need a room to put my little girls in. You’ve never heard it called that before?"
"What’s this you’re talkin about?" He frowns. He doesn't like strange criply dressed women laughing at him.
"The bathroom."
"Lady, if you need a bath, you’re in the wrong place. We sell drinks here. Might be able to get one at one a those fancy motel room thingies. You know the ones where the door don’t open with a key, it opens with a credit card? We must have one around here somewhere. Hey Jimmy," he asks the guy hunched over on the last barstool, and also the only other person in the place, "Y’ever see one a them motel doors that opens with the credit card?"
" No, no," the lady interrupts, "I don’t need a bath, what I need is—"
"Uh huh," Jimmy answers the bartender, "took the family down to Florida last winter. Weirdest thing you ever saw, all them girls in bikini bathin suits an all, right smack in the middle of February. It’s unnatural Lloyd. Doesn’t take."
"Unnatural is them doors I was talkin about," says Lloyd, "Creepy. Don’t know what they was thinkin, when they came up with that one. Ma’am, can I get you sometin?" he pulls a glass down from a shelf and starts wiping it with his towel. He's glowering at her.
She ignores his tone of face. "Yes, I’m looking for a restroom."
"Rest Room? Still sounds like you want a motel room. They got beds. Cable tv too. Pretty sure you can even get them," he leans closer and lowers his voice, "naked people movies. I seen one once. Uh huh. Hey Jimmy, where’s that motel with the naked people movies?"
"Oh, t’s over on Park Road. Just about outta town. Can’t miss it. Huge bright flashy lights everwhere. Don’t tell Marlene I know that though."
The two men share a chuckle.
She sticks on her best wince/grin. This conversation is not progressing. "Thank you, but what I’m really looking for is a loo." She taps her toe on the wood floor.
"A Loo? Lady, you’re just full of them words today. I don’t even know what a loo is. Is it like skip to my loo? Jimmy, what’s a skip to my loo?"
"It’s a—" the lady begins, her voice strained.
"It’s a song." Jimmy finishes for her, "The grandkids are always going on. Over an over. Drive a man nuts that would. I wanna shake em, but Mary would bout die if I tried. I get some ear plugs."
"Ear plugs," Lloyd reports back to the woman, "We don’t sell em here, but I got a pair I keep for nights when that other crowd comes in. You know the ones that only show up in the summer and can’t handle their liquor? Yeah, well, them’s plugs are a little used, but you’re welcome to try em. Won’t even charge ya. How’s that sound?"
Her tapping was picking up tempo. "I don’t need ear plugs. I need a lavatory."
"Wow, I don’t think we got one a them in the whole county. They keep those up with all the scientists and whatnot. The big cities. What exactly is so wrong with us I’ll never know. Eh Jimmy?"
"Never had no use for one myself. I know all I need to. I learnd from books, the old fashioned way. Remember that Lloyd? When you used to have to read something to learn?"
"
Sure do. Them’s was the days."
"I’ll drink to that." Jimmy finishes off his drink.
The woman finds her shoe will not tap any faster. "Oh for christ sake, what does a woman have to do to find a toilet around here?"
"A toilet? You mean just a regular plain old toilet? The porecelain kind?"
"With a flush, yes!" She is overjoyed.
"Honey, all you had to do was ask. I gotta say, you got me and Jimmy over here all twisted up trying to figure you out. Turns out, all you had to do was talk English. Not so hard now, is it?"
"Of course. How silly of me." He doesn't catch the sarcasm, "Anyway, could you point me… I mean, where is your toilet?"
"Upstairs. It’s a big storeroom up there, but you should be able to spot the thing all right. It’s white. And the TP’s right there with it."
Lovely. Thank you so much. And when I get back down here could I have a gin and tonic?" She starts up the stairs before she has a chance to hear his reply.
"Gin and tonic?" he asks Jimmy, "the things they learn out there in the world. How to be uppity."
"It’s unnatural," Jimmy says, "goin and makin things complicated like that. With them skyscrapers and gin and tonic and restrooms and all. Be on your guard there, Lloyd. And I’ll have another margarita."
"Coming right up."
Are People weird?
Are people weird?
Yes.
All people? No. Some of them are normal.
You’re sure about that? You’ve met normal people before?
Yes, I have.
How do you know they’re normal?
They don’t have all those weird corners everywhere for people to trip on.
I’ve never tripped on anyone before. Well there was one time, but that was because Brian stuck
his foot out. He was trying to trip me though. He laughed at me after I fell and said, "Enjoy the trip?" He was always a bully.
People are always tripping me. Last week in line at the cinema, the guy behind me in line tapped me on the shoulder and asked me, "excuse me, what movie are you going to see?" I told him. "Oh, I’ve heard that’s supposed to be excellent. I’ve also heard it was terrible. Why can’t those critics all come to a general consensus?"
You didn’t know him?
Never met him before in my life.
It’s fun though, isn’t it? To get tripped like that? I bet he was cute. Did he have a nice butt? Did he give you his number?
Sometimes it’s fun. Of course, One does have to be in a generally fun loving mood for that. Otherwise, it can just tire you out, never being able to relax like that. Some people have no sense of timing.
That’s a funny thing to say.
How so?
You’re talking about people and corners and tripping. It means being caught off guard. If you
know it’s coming then it’s not something you’re going to stumble on are you? It’s supposed to be the wrong time by definition.
But there’s a right time and a wrong time for everything. There’s good tripping (the one where you look like a clown and laugh at yourself) and bad tripping (where you fall down a well and break your ankle and no one finds you for three days) and one must know the difference to protect oneself.
No, no, no. To pick and choose your tripping experiences takes away the tripping all together. You have to be open to any kind of trip or you aren’t tripping, you’re just playing games with your feet. Easy games too, like solitaire. It’s cheating.
Does that take away the fun?
Do you have fun playing solitaire?
Not really.
Well there you go.
But what if life isn’t about surprises? You can have a perfectly scrumptious day where everything goes just as you always imagined it. Happens to me all the time.
How silly. Surprise is the magic of life. Literally. There’s something so mystical about things you were not expecting.
Like a leak in your roof? Those always come as a shock to me.
Maybe that’s what people mean when they’re talking about black magic.
Har har.
You think I’m off base here?
I’m wondering if you’re looking too deep. Why does everything have to have ten levels of meaning? Just take things at face value. Labels and isms and grand philosophies of the meaning of life only serve to make the people that think about them feel like they’re better than people who don’t.
Is that even possible?
Isn’t that what it means to live in a red state?
Low blow.
Sorry. But yes, it is possible. I once had a boyfriend who liked to talk about two things. Snowmobiling and bird hunting. We’re talking 70% of conversation was either one or the other. Pretty one sided ones too. What could I say about snowmobiling or bird hunting? "wow" or "Gosh" or something equally as expressive. And if I managed to bring up something else, politics or religion or board games, he managed an equal number of grunts or "wows" or goshes." So yes, some people can live quite happily in two dimensional worlds. Some of us are not so lucky.
You make it sound so exotic.
I think I envy them sometimes.
In that bliss that follows ignorance kind of way.
Precisely.
But they must find us just as exotic.
No, I’d say they just think we're weird.
So the feeling's mutual.
Dear Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza
Recently I have met a girl who I have fallen in love with, and I don’t mean your basic, I love her kinda love, but the kinda love that makes you want to do anything for that person, just to make them smile or be happy. Now, though I don’t fault her at all, she has been in an abusive relationship and wont allow herself to become emotionally attached to anyone because she still has feelings for her horrid Ex. So Miss Eliza, what my question is, is what should one do in my shoes?
Sincerely hopeless in love.
Dear Hopeless,
I can empathize with your dilemma. I remember once upon a banana boat, my Paddy had been in an abusive relationship, and as a result he would only have dealings with the opposite sex when wearing a ski cap made out of hot wax. My Paddy was not one for taking care of his hair, as you can imagine.
I myself hand to break down the barriers that separated his broken heart from my nurturing fertile one. It is of course a question of trust. And the most profound sense of trust is related to taste in culture. Do you share favorite movies or books or desserts? These are the types of things that you must cultivate. Invite your lady friend to a movie. You should be the picker because the point here is to make sure that she comes to trust your judgement in these things.
Absolutely no cheating. You must under no circumstances pick a movie just because it’s the one she’s been dropping hints about for the past two months. All of your trust building will be in vain when she discovers that you are only telling her what she wants to hear. And she will. All secrets come out in the end. Isn’t that the moral of every soap opera episode since the caveman first invented the wheel?
"But," begins your next question, "What if we share tastes in movies and books, but can never agree upon dessert?"
Well, dessert is the cornerstone for any relationship, and without this one pebble, your castle in the sky will crash into a stony pile in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Alas, this may come as something of a shock, but one cannot apologize for the truth, can one?
--Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza,
What makes a better pet, a cactus or a Venus fly trap?
--chalky in Chicago
Dear Chalky,
As my Paddy always used to say, "There are two types of people in this world." Everyone knows this already, and I know that because everyone I’ve ever met has said this sentence to me. But the First Law of Cliché states: While each and every person in the world believes there are two types of people in this world, no two people agree on which two types of people these are.
How does this apply? Because there are two types of people in this world. There are cactus people and there are Venus fly trap people. Cactus people are the ones who can never remember to water their plants. Venus fly trap people are sadistic. But who isn’t when it comes to flies. Did you ever squish the mosquito and stick your hand right next to your face for a closer inspection? Right.
Venus fly traps do have that extra zing in their personalities, but they are impossible to potty train. I have been working on mine since high school graduation. Finally I gave up and just stuck it on a wire shelf over my toilet.
But if you’re one of those lazy bums who expects your pet to make you take it for walks in order to get some exercise, the cactus is much more insistent about things of this nature. Each day around 4:00 PM you’ll find them anxiously sitting in front of the door. If you don’t start your walk by 4:15 they will remind you that it’s time to turn your TV off and go stare at the rest of the world. How? Well how would a porcupine do it? It’s like that.
Alas, I fear that I have not answered your question, but I hope that I have given you something to think about before rushing into this weighty and solemn decision.
--Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza,
If I was born in Pennsylvania and you were born in Maine? Does that really made us different? I mean, aren’t we all really the same in that deep ethereal cosmic sense?
--Peace Love and Brotherhood in PA
Dear Peace,
No.
An explanation perhaps? Pennsylvania began as a haven for those who were not accepted in other parts of the Puritan new world. Philadelphia is the city of brotherly love. You come from a land of tolerance and temperate climates.
Maine is not so forgiving. First of all, while we do open our arms to all ye flatlanders (for those of you unfamiliar with the tem, let me just say it’s derogatory, but only on the same level that darn is a swear word. No need to get huffy about it) we also breathe a sigh of relief and laugh at you when you’re out of ear shot.
The climate itself has also instilled certain nuances in our personalities. Winter is harsh and cold and long. And we, if not long, are at least harsh and cold. If you think otherwise, next time you’re in Greenville, Maine try going into the drug store, and see how excited the cashier gets when you say, "Look honey, a soda fountain!" You’ll know what I mean.
Physically, we’re not touchy feely. We’re used to having plenty of space to maneuver around other people. We like it that way.
And we do not talk about oneness in a deep ethereal cosmic sense. If nothing else, this makes me different from you. Better? I didn’t say that, did I? I didn't mean to. So let's say i didn't. Intention is what really counts.
--Miss Eliza
What Is Hope?
Hope is anything on any level possible implied by the phrase, "Early Spring."
If you believe we will deal with six less weeks of winter after a dear little groundhog pops out of his hole and doesn't see his shadow this is hope.
If you look at the tempratures from the last week in January to the first week in March and think, "Sure. I won't be needing my scarf for a while," this is hope.
If it's 40 degrees and sunny outside and you think that it's time to start shopping for that spring wardrobe, this is hope.
If the words "spring wardrobe" are in your vocabulary at all, this is hope. (Note, if the words spring wardrobe are in your vocabulary it could also be further evidence that there is a difference between you and me that asrises because you were born in Pennsylvania and I was born in Maine.)
If your cat has been shedding her winter coat for six weeks, this is hope.
If you visit a garden show, this is hope.
If you go tire shopping because your other season tires are pretty well bald, this is hope.
If you go down to Fort Myers to visit the Red Sox during spring training and are dissapointed when you return home to two feet of fresh powder, this is hope. More specifically, this is hope crushed down to a film of dust and swept into the toilet and flushed out to the great expanse only to be frozen in a pipe somewhere.
If this worries you, fear not. There is hope.
Blog on Blogs
So I’m thinking right? Which is always a bad way to start a blog, because my extensive research on the subject has been informing me, that nobody really wants to know what’s up with me. For two reasons, neither if which is nearly as self-depreciating as it sounds, I’m not doing this for pity. It’s more to share the results of my research. I told about that, remember?
Lets begin with how much closer to boring personal posts are. "Closer" is deceptive. It would be better to say that personal blogs have crossed the boring line. Those dirty rotten traitors! But can one blame them? Apparently not according to my research.
But I could be wrong. Maybe it’s just my personal blogs. Either way, they are problematic.
Why are these so-called insights into my soul so much more sleep inducing? Let’s introduce a scenario. Say something is important to me. My theory regarding magic/bubble/fairies for example. Suppose this is a theory which requires serious thought. See? It’s right there! That word, "serious." It puts up one doozey of a roadblock. Why? Have you any idea how hard it is to entertain over subjects you take seriously? Many worthy people are able to combine these two.
I personally cannot. Maybe when I get smarter.
Resulting, talking about me, (someone that I do not take seriously and therein lies the paradox) talking about my family, (people that I’d love not to take this seriously) talking about my personal eurekas! All seem to lose a little of that fun oomph that comes out of the non sequitur. I just can’t get into character when I don’t have a character to get into.
Oh the sense of it!
The second part of my research (for those of you who got lost, the first part of my research dealt with my careful observations of my blog writing) has been conducted by blog surfing. You know that fun little button on the top of the screen that says next blog? Where does that take you?
Most of the time one of two places. First you may find yourself in the middle of a foreign language blog. Now I am in no way shape or form saying that these are good or bad. I can’t really tell, I’m pretty crippled when it comes to lingualism. For all I know, these sites could be riotous and enjoyable and a belly full of intellect. I will never know and therefore, I must quickly pass them by.
The other common blog type is the diary one. How many times to you pop upon a random blog that says:
"I had a test in biology today. I don’t think I did very well, but then at lunch Joanie let one and I totally forgot. After school she called me and we talked about Mark. I know I don’t have a chance, but Joanie thinks she does (yeah right) so she’s going to ask him to the winter formal. I think I’m going with Steve. He left flowers in my locker this morning…"
Which tends to alienate the 99.99999% of people who don’t happen to be in her circle of friends.
I could be wrong about that. My research was mostly based on how many seconds I spent at each blog. These did rate higher than the foreign language blogs by about ten seconds. (Average time at foreign language blog: 2 seconds, average time at teenager blog: 12 seconds. Margin of error, 3 seconds) For all I know I have this weird unhealthy lack of curiosity about 14 year old girls in Pasadena.
These two are painfully hard to move beyond, and yet sometimes, by sheer magic, I find this blog (or that blog) actually worth two cents. How do I love them, let me count the ways!
What makes a blog worth reading (silly rabbit, blogs aren’t for reading!) isn’t easy to determine, alas! But it does exist. It’s a lot like "normal" in that way, but we’ll be leaving that for a new segment I shall be inducting shortly for the subject of cliches. Stay tuned. The best way I’ve found to explain whether the blog is actually worth reading is to answer this question. How long have I been here? Anything longer than one minute is a good sign.
Of course, no blog research would be complete without turning the little eye on myself. How much time do I spend reading my own blog? I’m sorry to say, maybe two or five seconds a month. Embarrassing to any degree, I must admit. Half the time I don’t even know that I’ve posted the same entry nine times. Have I? Please tell me.
So no, I do not pass my test. This could explain much. Or this could explain nothing. It’s very hard to say, and Doug isn’t talking to me.
(no, that is NOT an alienating reference to people you don’t know. I have already introduced you to doug. He’s the one I blame for my lack of hair style, aka a mouse nest.)
Dear Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza,
I’m 15 years old, and do you have any idea how dumb my classes are? Your classes must have been the same way, right? How did you amnage to cope with them?
Bored in Bali
Dear Bored,
I know exactly what you’re talking about. Coping with tedium is one of the most essential skills you will take away from high school. It’s right up there with math and getting your license. So whatever you do, you’re going to want to pay attention (if not to your teachers then to your bordom coping method). Here are a couple ideas.
1. Antagonize your teachers. Not all of them, mind you, but the more liberal ones definitely. Find out how often your teacher uses phrases like "thinking outside the box" or "critical thinking." These are the ones you can mess with. If your teacher has issues with say, you wearing a hat in class, you might want to stay away from button pushing.
But you have to remember to be very careful about where you focus your negativity. You’ll want to avoid personal attacks on your teacher. Don’t call him stupid or a jackass. Instead, attack what he’s saying. What is he teaching you? If you don’t really see the relevance of a book like 1984 or Crime and Punishment, if you think Walt Whitman was a pompous windbag, if you think calculus is overrated or the Constitution is tedious, that's the kind of thing you'll want to bring up. Teachers (especially those liberal ones) like to reward this behavior for some reason. And I must say whenever I wrote a paper denouncing whatever book I was supposed to have read, I always got a kickass grade on it.
This is an excellent outlet, and it will make you feel better. My senior year in high school, I used this approach on my (completely retarded) English teacher and for some reason he fell in love with me. I got the highest grade in the class and numbers of other students wrote in my yearbook how they were going to miss my daily lunching on the teacher. So you see, this is good not only for you, but nice entertainment for classmates as well.
2. Play games in class. My particular favorite was the dot game. You know the one where each person takes turns drawing lines, and if your line closes in a square you get to keep going? Always a big hit. Then there was the composite picture, where you draw something, pass it along to the next person and they draw something and so on until the bell rings. This got me through half a year of biology after they replaced our super-good teacher with this dope who had a comb over. It did help that he was a firm believer (or at least I’m pretty sure he was) that kids should be allowed to do whatever they want in the classroom. Because I know we never tried to hide our little rays of sunshine. He must have noticed.
3. (and this is probably the one that your teachers are hoping for) Find the class interesting. Though how to cultivate interest if it doesn't exist is one of those weird concepts like infinity or wave particle duality that everyone claims exists, but no one really understands.
4. Finish this saying, "Dude, I could teach this so much better than her. I would…" And if your teacher is REALLY bad and no one is learning anything, then get a study group together and try out your theory. Or even better, get her to ask "Do you want to teach this class?" and answer yes. Class grades will rise, and when the superintendent finds out that you are responsible, she’ll fire your fuddy duddy teacher and hire you instead and all will be right with the world.
5. Are you more of a daydreamer? Put that to good use. Today’s television is running low on innovative and intelligent tv shows. So come up with one. (I’ll give you a hint. Please let it
not be a reality show. I couldn’t bear it if someone read this column and went out and invented a new reality show. I would feel personally responsible. Do not put that on my conscience.) Write a pilot. Or try a screenplay. But either way you go, you’re going to need these two key words. INNOVATIVE and INTELLIGENT. Witty is a very nice way to go. The world could always use some extra wit.
Well, I hope these examples have been of some use. Please contact me again when you graduate, and we’ll see if I helped at all.
Once again,
--Miss Eliza
TO MY READERS: If you have a question for Miss Eliza, please don’t be shy. Send it to me. Either post it in a comment, or e-mail it to
selizawalden@yahoo.com it would be my pleasure to print it. Look at it this way. This could be the question that makes YOU famous.
Don't Panic!
So it’s taken me a while in my blissfully ignorant tv-less state, to discover this but Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy comes out April 29.
http://hitchhikers.movies.go.com/main.htmlNow, you are reading my blog, so by definition I care about you, Right? Right. So I’m going to give you a little advice. But don’t look at it as advice, or you’ll never follow it. I know I don’t. It’s a rule. Think of it as a blog entry instead. Because I’m note sure whether y’all have noticed this or not but it is, so life gets exponentially easier.
Here’s the thing. Now’s a good time to read the book. You’ve got somewhere around two months to do it, so if you’re a slow reader, starting sometime soonerish is a good thing.
Why read the book? I’m glad you asked. And here presented are several compelling answers.
1. So that you can utter this sentence in a snooty condescending manner just like mine. "It was charming and endearing and fabulously witty, but the book was better." A vital verbalization to put next to any adaptation from the literary genre. It wouldn’t be a book made into a movie without it, and you know you want to get in on the put-downs.
2. The movie coming out is a wonderful excuse for those of you who read it before and fell madly in love to rekindle the passion all over again. Such is my personal story, having no money, and not having had a chance to get to the library, I was stumped this morning as to which book I ought to take to the gym with me. Mine don’t seem to last very long, over break I finished three in three days, but anyway… So I decided to go for an old classic. You guessed it. The Ultimate Hitchhiker’s Guide. (BTW, a very sound investment considering the first book isn’t enough, save a couple bucks and get all six books.) While it will be Long closed by the time April 29 comes to visit, the idea was fresh in my head and blah blah.
3. Read it to be in the know. You know Towely from South Park? Do you know why he’s a towel? Granted Hitchhiker’s references haven’t inundated our culture to the extent that Monty Python has, but it still make you feel smart to catch these references when they show up. Just so that you’ll know, this is also fabulous reason to stay up to date in current events. Then when you are reading Newsweek (or really any paper with an editorial page) you can understand those cartoons. You know the ones. Bonus, you’ll know all the answers on that quiz show that NPR does on Saturday morning about all the things that happened in the news this week.
4. What you need more? How about "It was charming and endearing and fabulously witty, but the book was better," only without that last part? Yeah that sounds good.
Expanding away from the point of this blog entry (who, me?) I’d just like to say that this April is going to be really good. Between this and Fever Pitch (which whether I like it or not I’m going to get a kick out of because… well… you understand…) and the beginning of baseball again (!!!) I think I’m going to have a good time.
p.s. I’d like to start a movement if you don’t mind. People go to star wars and LOTR dressed up as their favorite character (either that, or the easiest one to invent) right? Well, I’m not asking for that much, just take a towel with you as a show of solidarity. Be cool. Take a towel. That’s my new motto.
the Endangered Tree Octopus
Important information for anyone who wants to save the tree octopus or is involved with saquatch relations:
http://zapatopi.net/bsa/octopus.html
How To Ruin My Favorite Board Game
So I like a good game of chess right? I mean, I’m no great and powerful Oz of the board, but I can lose a fairly respectable game of chess most of the time.
SIDE TRACK: However, when it’s all over and my partner’s laying on the other side of the bed smoking a cigarette and says the age old, "gg," I know he was faking. We all have our tells. I mean, if he really meant it, the least he could do is use whole words. It’s like proposing to someone by saying "WYMM?" to which I would obviously reply "YR." NOTE: For translations, just make something up.
I’m not bad enough to get me to stop playing.
SIDE TRACK: And yes, I’m bad enough at several things to get me to stop playing. Cross reference: Risk, Monopoly, any video game known to man, and balancing my checkbook.
I’m just bad enough to get me to stop playing rated games when I play on-line. And it’s not like I’m playing super smart purple or orange guys either. I do my best to stick with the blue and green ones.
SIDE TRACK: Although, I’m more of an autumn, I can still look damn sexy next to those blue and greens. HA! Me, sexy. That’s the joke, not the part about the blues and greens. I’d never tell you that you were supposed to laugh at my humor that’s so arid it needs a glass of water to get it down. I have more respect for you than that. In fact, I have enough respect for you to understand that reading this is really a waste of your time and therefore you aren’t really, this is all an illusion and the world is going to end in about ten seconds, so read quickly!
But I digress. This is not about my chess playing non-ability, this is a well researched rant on my chess playing pet peeve.
SIDE TRACK: For further griping about non chess related pet peeves, see reality tv, people who don’t think, the Yankees and Dan Brown. About which I can expand my griping upon request, but only if you really, REALLY want to go there. I didn’t think so.
So lets set up the board shall we? We’ve made it to the end game, and you (you savvy chess master you) Have whittled me down to my king and a pawn that’s stranded out there in the middle of the board because he’s facing your pawn. Thanks a ton buddy.
SIDE TRACK: that’s another minor pet peeve of mine, especially when I felt like threatening your minions with my minion, but you saw that coming, stepped up and picketed. Another good one, which I have recently over come the way you use your queen to threaten mine and then we both lose. But in the words of my psychotherapist, "who gives a flying ass?" And she’s got a point. But even she can’t stand my best friend pet peeve.
And I have whittled you down (I use that term loosely) to your king, both rooks and four pawns, three who have somewhere to go. Now listen, two rooks is plenty god enough to end this game, right? Of course. So why in hell do you really need to bring down each and every one of your pawns (or even one for that matter) down to get queened? Meanwhile I’m stuck with my poor impotent king…
SIDE TRACK: How do I love that word, let me count the ways. Is that a girl thing? Because I always get a reaction when I use it (forever in a purely non-sexual way because really where’s the fun in using a word in the context for which it was intended?) Be it male or female company. Granted, I don’t use it for the reaction, I use it because 1. it’s exactly the meaning I’m looking for and 2. It’s not every day you hear it right? It’s still fresh. But ooh, the power.
…plopping him around between like two spaces begging for you to finish this game, but you’re all like, ‘no, no, no, I’ve always wanted to do this," Or whatever. To which I reply with my perfectly timed, "dude, maybe they can get away with torture in military prison, but that doesn’t make it ok." With the possible alternate being, "Isn’t cruel and unusual punishment illegal?"
SIDE TRACK: I’m with her on this one.
Now let’s add something to this scenario, oui? Let’s pretend that we’re playing a timed game. Now I have about… nine minutes left on my clock, and you being your industrious savvy chess master self, have twelve minutes. And I see you there with your two rooks and your pawn almost down to queening range and I decide that this is retarded and you’re being mean. What if I don’t move? I mean, I have nothing to lose because I already did if you’d only just act like it. If I decide to let the time run out so that you have to wait an extra nine minutes to get your win, would you get the message? Or would that just make me a bitch?
SIDE TRACK: has anyone managed to beat game 617 in free cell? Because I can’t figure out how to do it, and I tried for a week. For those of you who don’t know, when my boredom reaches a certain point I like to play free cell, and you know how all the games are numbered? Well for the past couple years I’ve been going through them starting at game 1 and then 2 etc. I hit this snag and 617 and finally decided to skip it & come back later, but if anybody knows how to win, I’d love you to share with me. Thanks.
The Interview
Now Jason, you’re ten years old?
Yup.
And you’ve been seeing a psychiatrist for how long?
Since November.
And why did your parents think you need therapy?
Cuz I lie a lot. Like I told people that my sister ran away after she got pregnant at her junior prom and that’s why she hasn’t been in school this year.
But isn’t that what really happened? I mean, that is the story that I got from your parents.
Well we all have to learn to lie from somewhere, don’t we? I learned from Mom and Dad. And they’re really good. Everyone believes them. So I guess I don’t see why they get to do it and I don’t.
Uh huh. So why do you think it is that your parents didn’t want Dr. Roberts to treat you anymore?
The candy.
The what?
She had candy in her desk all the time, and she’d give me a piece whenever I went in there. Mom and Dad don’t really approve of things like that, they’re big fans of sugar free. So when they found out that my psychiatrist was giving me candy that had real sugar in it, they had a huge fight. And now I’m here talking to you.
Is that what your parents told you it was about?
Yes.
And you believed them?
I want to, yeah.
When you say you want to believe them, you give the impression that you don’t believe, really. Were you aware of that?
Sort of, I guess.
Do you have another idea about what this is all about?
Well see, once a week my parents would sit in on my sessions, just to see how they were going, right? And in this last one, Dr. Roberts brought up the subject of Owen. He’s my older brother, right? He’s the backup catcher for the Devil Rays, and Mom is totally gung ho Yankees, and she feels like he’s sort of a traitor or whatever. Doesn’t even open his Christmas presents, even when he’s right there! And I think that’s totally stupid, and I’ve been wanting to tell her for a while and Dr. Roberts thought it was a good idea. Well she had a huge hissy fit and called me an ungrateful brat and walked out. Took the car too. Dad and I had to hitchhike back to our house.
Is that true, Jason?
What you don’t believe me?
Well you are here because you tell stories and most of them are lies, and if I’m going to help you I need to be able to know the difference.
You don’t trust me.
I wouldn’t go quite that far—
Why is it that I’m always hearing about the importance of trust in relationships? I mean, I don’t think I’m the only one that needs to go around trusting people. Just because I’m ten and you’re fifty doesn’t mean that I have to trust you but you don’t have to trust me. Because that’s dumb. It’s like discrimination or something. And I’m not going to put up with it.
Jason, do you really even want help with your problem?
What?
This lying problem that you’re here to solve, do you want to fix it?
That’s a cheesy question doc, don’t you think? I mean, duh.
That depends. Are we talking duh because if we didn’t want to fix it we wouldn’t be here in the first place or are we talking duh because it’s so much fun why should I want to stop?
I… umm…
Because, it’s fun, isn’t it Jason?
Yeah.
So tell me about that.
It’s like a challenge, or a dare or something. To make this whole other universe that doesn’t really exist, and to fill in details that don’t really mean anything, but the more details, the more people believe you, right? Because why would I bother to make all this stuff up? It’s just really thrilling.
And manipulative.
Yeah, and that. But who said that’s a bad thing right? I mean, isn’t your job to manipulate people and make them better? Did you know that I want to be a psychiatrist when I grow up?
Jason—
Because I do. Think of all the crazy people you get to meet. I saw this one guy on the bus on the way over here. He didn’t know how to wear clothes.
Jason, come on…
No really, he was wearing pants on his arms, and had two ski hats on his feet. I don’t know if there were shoes underneath or not, but these hats were tied on by rubber bands, right? He did get his underwear on in the right place though—
Look--
I know because he wasn’t wearing anything over them. He was just sitting there in his boxers and talking to himself. That’s how you know person’s really crazy, right doc? They talk to themselves. Am I right? I am aren’t I?
Jason, our times up.
Oh. Ok. Well, can I come back then? I mean, did I pass he test?
Sure. If that’s how you want to look at it.
